


in a land of folly && fae

by witchwolfvice



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, M/M, Oneshot, Poetry, Prose Poem, ch 3 is the obligatory jurdan chapter, just sort of uploading things as i feel inspired, so here i am......., tbh tfota doesn't have enough lgbt content, these poems / drabbles / etc aren't connected or in any chronological order!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15566673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchwolfvice/pseuds/witchwolfvice
Summary: collection of drabbles, one-shots, and poetic prose inspired by && about the characters featured in the folk of the air series. some are ship oriented, some aren't, these writing pieces are not connected in terms of chronological order nor canon. each chapter will exist within its own bubble/canon divergence unless stated otherwise.ch.1 excerpt;usually jude would not fall so fast, so hard. she is no fool, she is not some bumbling idiot, she knows that nicasia can give her things she so desperately needs. lips to kiss, skin to touch, hair for her fingers to cascade through so comfortingly—no, no, that is not it. that is the hormones speaking, that is the hollow, empty aching speaking from her broken human heart. still, her mind is not what speaks, what answers is the writhing fire and lethal attraction coiling in the deepest recesses of her gut. "let us seal your loyalty...with a kiss."





	1. real royalty.

she is made of blood and bones and irreprehensible rotting, mortal flesh. she is jude duarte and she is what real royalty looks like. what draws nicasia in is the wicked glint showcased behind plush, cranberry lips, then the gleam of alabaster ivory that is her fangs. well, teeth, really, no incisor as sharp as what belongs to the gentry, but there is something about her that screams "beast", cries out "predator". nicasia learns through jude what real power looks like. cardan may be on the throne, but who put him there? who is he bound to, what agenda is it that he pushes and who for, exactly? who is the wondrous woman, with her wild wiles and knife-sharp wit? who is the kingmaker. jude is the kingmaker. jude is the puppetmaster, pulling all the strings, cardan is the marionette fallen victim to her outspoken, unafraid tongue.

nicasia is entranced.

she floats through the throne room like it is she that belongs there, like she's come home after some tarrying, trivial vacation—but it is okay because she's back now, where she is needed. she's unsurprised but still impressed to see mortal girl, lethal assassin sitting upon a throne of thorn, ivy, and oak. the brunette wears a sneer on worn, raw carmine petals, her eyes narrow down to slits. "what do you want, nicasia. your little prince...sorry, king, isn't here at the moment," jude draws out, voice almost a whisper, nay, a hiss. 

nicasia shakes her head with a knowing but teasing smirk. her beryl locks bounce with the motion, glinting like jewels by the sunlight that creeps through the cracks in the walls, just barely so. her skin almost glitters in the otherwise darkness of the room, glowing shades of gold and taupe and amber. her lips are painted the color of a seashell's bare back, pearlescent pink and dripping, too. 'my mother is undoubtedly working faster than either of us could comprehend. should she get her hands on cardan...well, i worry for him, but not for you. a new king is 'pon the elfhame throne, with a crown weighing heavy 'pon their head, donned in riches but filth and blood, also,' she speaks, words cryptic as she has been taught, has grown up and learned by her whole life. a long, immortal, treacherous thing it was, has been, is.

jude scowls, lips curling up like some wild dog ready to bark, then to bite. strike with reckless abandon she's so sure only humans know. "i told you, cardan isn't here. besides, like you said, i don't need to worry about _your mother_ and so neither does cardan...he doesn't want you anymore. he's bored of you, he's finished. cardan doesn't need a queen—"

she is cut off by the tutting from a sea-wench's tongue. "i'm not talking about cardan, you silly thing," she pauses, slinking forward like it is now she who is the predator. the way she moves is liquid, languid, fluid. she's almost fox-like in nature, though that's locke's job, isn't it? her nails are like claws carved from coral and clownfish, she tangles a finger in jude's willow bark strands, another hand comes to cup the jaw of her heart-shaped face. for someone who should be so plain, she is dangerously gorgeous. nicasia leans down, baby pink lips caress the shell of a rounded, human ear. she whispers, her breath cool, tickling. "kingmaker. king jude duarte, i am yours if you simply say the words. every king needs a queen, you naive thing, and i am here to serve as such," she murmurs, an utterance so soft but so binding; a promise. a swear, an oath, a vow.

nicasia knows dominion when she sees it.

jude's eyes are blown wide, the color of chestnuts roasting on an open, flickering flame. she almost stammers, almost falters— _almost_. but she doesn't. to show weakness is her downfall, to show weakness is when enemies will strike in the open and without caution, fear. "well...i suppose i need all of the allies that i can get..." usually jude would not fall so fast, so hard. she is no fool, she is not some bumbling idiot, she knows that nicasia can give her things she so desperately needs. lips to kiss, skin to touch, hair for her fingers to cascade through so comfortingly—no, no, that is not it. that is the hormones speaking, that is the hollow, empty aching speaking from her broken human heart. still, her mind is not what speaks, what answers is the writhing fire and lethal attraction coiling in the deepest recesses of her gut. "let us seal your loyalty...with a kiss."

nicasia chuckles, a sultry sound in dulcet tones. "seal this we shall."

petals collide with petals, a blossoming garden in spring where flowers grow so tall and bright. claws dig into jude's scalp, her neck, her throat, fangs scrape up against her lips and it is a frightening, seductive instance of skin-touching-skin. the princess's tongue tastes like nectar and ambrosia, food of the gods fit only for a king. fit only for her. a groan rings out throughout the hall, and she freezes, but then realizes the noise is hers. crawled up through her throat and into the open, poisonous air. something fizzes up inside her; she is a shaken soda can ready to burst like a rocket into space. _she'd gotten that analogy from vivi._ she hears a moan slide off of magnificent faerie tongue, it is her turn to smirk into this union of teeth and tongue and lips. "no embrace like that of a king, hm?" she murmurs, vicious and vile. nicasia growls, tugging her back into the kiss. if you can even call this desperate, divine connection a **"kiss"**.

all 'good' things must come to an end, that is, all sinful, indulgent decadent irrealities must come to a halt before they are discovered, caught like a dear in headlights. so, nicasia pulls away first, looking a delightful, disastrous mess. her hair is frizzed, her lip stain is smeared, her eyes are frenzied. "we shall meet again to discuss the details of this arrangement."

and with the swaying of voluptuous hips, the clacking of fine heels, the jangling of jewelry against bronze-kissed skin, her queen is gone. until they meet again.


	2. wicked like a wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> locke x cardan. cardan's perspective, 1st person point of view.

that boy is wicked like a wildfire, sneaky smarmy fox that he is. you think maybe he would've been better off born with emerald skin and vines for hair, for he is also traitorous as a slimy, slithering serpent. what you want, he will take—rip it out of your hands all the while you don't see a thing coming. the way that he lurks in the shadows, plotting, devising, seething. he's turned you all into stories by now, you're quite sure of it.

and yet. through all of this he is _still your best friend_. 

he'd torn nicasia right out of your weak, intoxicated arms, only to pass her along to a great big nothingness when he grasped onto taryn. then, he became bored of the **lesser twin** , moved onto her. to jude. twirled her up into some fantastical faerietale where they were in love and the true cruelties of fae could not touch them. wrapped her up in his spider's web without even a second thought. everything is a game, to locke, with his wildfire hair and his grass green hues so full of mirth, but if you look closer, betrayal. he finds glory in the suffering of others. finds misery in his own boredom.

then, he cuts jude loose. you find this more than anything, so hilariously amusing. she does not cry, she does not break down, become some withering simpering mess of a mortal girl. she duels her own sister and goes after locke, next. you think you might've been sad if she killed him. but you would've been proud, too. you were not sad when you learned of valerian's death, in fact only surprised and vaguely impressed. who knew she had it in her. valerian was a waste of life, anyways, with his remaining brain cells shriveling up like dying flowers; lost to the violence and the nonsensical cruelty. 

but. still.

now it is a different time. you are on the throne, jude is in the depths of hollow hall stewing in her plans, brewing up their success. people hunger for power, thirst for the crown and bloodlust, too. but here locke is, as always, still starving for his stories. "i thought i'd make a story out of jude. an epic poem, maybe, about the downfall of a tragic hero. yet it would seem she's made a story out of you: out of all of us," he chuckles, the sound low, familiar. you scoff, shake your head at the frivolous fox-boy that he is. the two of you are in your quarters, locke himself avoiding the duarte sisters these past few weeks. it's funny, you think, he's almost afraid of them, jude in particular of course.

"you blathering thing. i only indulge you in my company because i can't stand to be around that human. she's so stubborn it's insufferable," you mutter irritably. locke only laughs, the sound soft and warm on your ear. he kisses your cheek, you flush, but you've become used to his affections after so long. he titters, shaking his head while bouncing fire curls around his freckled cheeks.

"it's funny that you say that. i personally found that attractive in her, as i do with you. it's amusing to me, you are both so similar in ways you don't even realize. though i have to give you credit, you're much more handsome then she," he dives in for a kiss and you blush violet as elderberries, hand covering his mouth in a quick defense. he settles for kissing your palm, fangs scraping up against the flesh there.

you groan, rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. "you're terribly obnoxious, you know that? you're just kissing my arse to make up for all the shit you've stirred up," and locke shrugs, because he cannot lie, and there are some truths to the words that you speak.

"well, also, i've been a tad lonely these past few weeks. and you are as great a comfort as ever, _my king_. besides...you know that you love me, crave my touch, desire me so," he murmurs, sultry, husky against your skin. you shudder, and it is not a bad thing, but also, it is a horrid thing. you cannot lie either.

"maybe sometimes," you mutter, and it's the flimsiest excuse you can manage without heaving up the whole truth in a stream of word vomit. how you're jealous, not of him but of nicasia, of jude, of taryn. how you wish he'd stop playing these **damned games** with everyone, most of all with you. his eyes crinkle at the corners, and this time when he goes in for the kiss you allow it to happen. his lips are soft like silk, not as plump as nicasia’s but still as plush as egyptian cotton. you sigh into his embrace, the way he cradles your jaw in his hands, his fingers careen through obsidian locks not unkindly. it's been like this for as long as you remember, locke loves to make you into _his story_ but he likes to take care of you, too. days when balekin beat you bloody and bruised, locke finding you in the wee hours of the night with bandages and his warm embrace. instances where you've dranken yourself silly, and locke would bring you water and bread and his gentle, barely-kisses, dancing across your shoulderblades like lightning bugs. you sigh into the kiss, melt in his arms like putty.

maybe one day he'll betray you, too. but that day is not now, and underneath the setting sun seeping in through the stained glass windows, you'll let yourself rest there under the sheets with him, freckled arms about your waist.


End file.
